


Somewhere Among Dreams

by ZeroApathy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Plot, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 13:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeroApathy/pseuds/ZeroApathy
Summary: For one thing, the air about him was haughty. His words were almost condescending yet reserved. Yet his eyes…the truth behind the false veneer that glazed them…was fragile, like glass. And Erik began to wonder what was keeping those delicate pieces together, keeping this hurt soul intact.





	Somewhere Among Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently inspired by an old manga. Enough to start writing again. This story is not for the light of heart... Regardless, it should be a good read I think! Enjoy! :D

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

_It's pretty simple, pretty obvious: that people's first impressions of people are really a big mistake __—_ **_Vincent D'Onofrio_**

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“Hey Erik, wake up. Can’t really jerk off if your snoring like that. Your kind of ruining the mood.”

“Nghh…five more minutes.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be anyway?”

Sheets rustle and a vibrating phone that had what suspiciously looked like a well-endowed, blond female on the screen hit the floor. 

“Aren’t you going to get in trouble with your coach again for being late?”

Maybe it was the word coach that invoked such an extreme reaction from the formally napping young man or just previous trauma of similar threats; whatever the case, Erik was leaping nearly a foot off his bed, yelping as feet got tangled in blankets and he careened painfully onto the floor, head first. Pain blossomed in the back of his skull, but it couldn’t outweigh the thundering beat of his heart as he realized he was in fact going to be late to basketball practice. For the third time. And it’s only been one month since the semester started. Double whammy (or was it a third?). Regardless, he was in deep shit and he could hardly concentrate as he tried to find his basketball shoes in the disarray that was his side of the room. At least he had the foresight to change into his gym wear before he passed out but that wasn’t accounting for much.

In stark contrast to the devastation that was his side of his room was the other half that was clean, heavily decorated with anime paraphernalia that would make any otaku swoon. As if silently judging him behind the rims of those clear lenses was his friend and roommate Mason who looked torn between being concerned at Erik’s situation or going back to the questionable material displayed on his laptop. Perhaps it hadn’t been his imagination making up shit when he heard something vaguely sounding like jerking off.

“Dammit he’s going to  _ murder _ me! Like gut me and fill me with stuffing like what those uh…taxi—shit what are they called again?” Thoughts were hard right now; he had to stop himself from putting his shoes on the wrong feet.

“Taxidermist?” Mason filled in loosely, turning back to his screen as he found Erik state of dress to be satisfactory. Or perhaps he was eager to get back to what he was doing. The dim yellow of a jar of Vaseline seemingly appeared from nowhere. “You think I could have a copy of one of your statues? If you do in fact get filled with stuffing?”

Pausing, Erik asked suspiciously, “Why?”

“…for research purposes of course.”

“Whatever your thinking—just keep my stuffed self and non-stuffed self out of it,” he made himself sound as disgusted as he possibly could, but the teasing overtones flushed out the effect.

Mason’s sapphire-blue hues peered briefly over a skinny shoulder before being magnetized back to whatever was in his screen. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere, my Nerf herder friend?”

“Dammit!”

Maybe that was the last push Erik needed before he was pelting out of his room faster than the door could close behind him, not even hearing some dorm-mates inviting him to play games in the lounge. He took the steps three at a time, leaping rather than walking with those long legs of his till he was racing out the front doors of Wallach Hall into the brisk New York City air. Not so different from home but devoid of the surroundings he had grown accustomed to. There was a significantly smaller number of trees and wildlife for instance and an increase of people. Claustrophobic to the tenth power despite Columbia University being only a small portion of the Empire State. Even though he was running to where basketball practice was being held and it was only eight minutes away, that didn’t account for the fact he still didn’t quite memorize the route and was taking more wrong turns then he could count. A quick glance at his phone and 15:30 glared accusingly back at him, reminding him of his worsening sin and the looming storm that was ahead of him.

So consumed with fear and anxiety for his worsening lateness that he didn’t quite look up in time to see the impending collision with another body, grunting but hardly losing his balance (thank you signature tallness) as he paused to look at the damage he caused this time.

A couple of books was scattered on the ground; sheets of white paper were trapped on the ground by a messenger bag; and a sole figure sat in the middle of it. Without thinking and feeling bad for the trouble, Erik bent down to offer a hand, a clumsy apology on his lips, “Shit man, I’m sorry. I was in a rush and I wasn’t paying attention—”

_ “Don’t touch me!” _

Recoiling in shock like he'd been slapped, Erik reigned back his assistance and took a step back, the venom in that sharp voice causing him to do a double take. 

Short, styled (not quite so much now) sun-kissed blond hair that touched the tips of flushed ears slightly skewed glaring, hard hazels. Soft pink lips were set in a mildly annoyed snarl, causing that equally distasteful expression to sour even more. Those cheekbones were high; almost delicate—a sign of high pedigree even in the twenty-first century. A straightened and pressed collared pink shirt wasn’t as immaculate as it probably was before the tumble, taking away the organized flair the guy was rocking just moments ago before he fell. In an offhanded mental admission, Erik acknowledged he was quite handsome—totally not in a gay way, just a statement of fact. Not that there was anything wrong with finding a guy attractive—every dude at some point has had a curious thought at least once. Suffice it to say Erik has but he never pursued that line of thinking.

Still…what do you do when a guy reacts like that for trying to help him?

Open mouth. Close it. Open it again and hope your tongue had come up with a plan of action because his skull was eerily vacant.

“Um, sorry. You sure you don’t need help?” Inquired the basketball player awkwardly, once more, gingerly this time.

His reply was a scathing glance in his direction before the blond got to his feet, dusting himself off all the way to the edges of his beige khakis. Once he was finished, he threw a cursory once-over to the pole that caused this incident in the first place. The guy was shorter—probably like 5’10 to his 6’5.

And when he spoke, his voice was colder than the air near the Hudson River. “No, I think you’ve done more than enough. If you want to help, you should take care to pay attention to where you’re going. It’s shouldn’t be exceedingly difficult with that height of yours to have a birds-eye view of things, no?”

Not knowing how to respond to such blatant animosity, it was a wonder that Erik didn’t do more than just fumble, “W-What is that supposed to mean exactly?”

Hazel eyes observed him coolly for a hot moment before reaching a conclusion, bending down to collect his things. “Nothing. If I recall under that thing you called an apology, you were muttering about being in a rush? Shouldn’t you be going? Or was that an excuse for your momentary lapse of idiocy.”

“Y-You—”  _ asshole,  _ Erik wanted to say, not quite understanding how someone could be so insulting over an accident. His fingers were clenched into trembling balls which didn’t escape the other’s notice, remaining unfazed. “Look dude—it was an accident. And I’m not getting on my hands and knees to please you. Later man.”

Erik didn’t stick around for a response and he didn’t want to stick around trading more words—something told him he would lose that fight. Besides, the guy wasn’t worth the time; not that he had any to spare. Although, it did draw a trickle of curiosity from his subconscious of why the other reacted so harshly when he went to help. That wasn’t your typical response was it? Probably not. Perhaps he thought Erik had some type of disease or something. What did they call those guys…germaphobes? 

Whatever the case maybe, it was a low chance he would run into the guy again with how big this damn school was. To be completely honest, he really hoped he wouldn’t. 

The gymnasium loomed ahead of him as he allowed his thoughts to distract him enough to pass the time till he got where he needed to be, pushing thoughts of aggravating blondes to the deepest recesses of his mind.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Sweat trickled down from every open pore on his body, slipping into his eyes and blinding him with salt and liquid. The fine yet rough material of the orange ball was familiar and comforting in his hand as he dribbled it rhythmically at his own tempo, guarding it like some precious artifact as the enemy team opposed him with every intention of stealing it or preventing him from making that shot. A glance around the towering monstrosity that was David Matthews and he could see he wasn’t far away from the three-point line—an easy shot for him compared to making the one where he was at. The glaring red numbers of the shot clock deemed his time of handling the ball a mere eight seconds left. No time to think. No time to even breathe. Gayle stood somewhere to his right, further past the three-point line, an easy pass but mostly unsuccessful because he was being cornered like an animal. Like everyone else. A violation was beginning to rear its ugly head, but his stubborn nature rebelled, unwilling to be passive at the very real chance of defeat. 

After all, the score was 67 to 69; you either tie the game, win it or bare your neck in submission to the enemy.

Erik gritted his teeth and took a step back, t-shirt sticking wetly to his back from all the perspiration.

David's blue eyes gleamed from behind a shock of curly, carrot-orange hair, mimicking his movements, casting a shadow over him, keen on not letting him do a thing.

His mind cleared, reducing everything but the ball in his hand and the hoop at the end to nothing. The muscles in his body contracted and flexed in reaction to his body’s desire, summoning his considerable leg strength to make a jump—at least that’s what it appeared to be. And as he predicted, his opponent misread his action and jumped before Erik could properly launch off the ground, his face twisting into annoyed disbelief at his premature descent and Erik’s gaining airtime. The red digits on the clock shifted to single one with tiny milliseconds trialing after it as the ball left Erik’s fingertips and traveled through the air, stealing every gaze on the court and the sound with it.

_ Swoosh _

His aim was true, and the sound of the quarter ending was simultaneous with him landing on his rear, having lost his balance from muscle-fatigued legs. 

A mixed chorus of dejected groans and elated cheers filled the court and he was suddenly being yanked to his feet and subjected to a near overwhelming amount of physical contact from equally sweaty males.

“Nice shot mate!”

“Yea’ I thought you were going to shit your pants with Matthews holding you down like that.”

“Gee thanks guys for the level of confidence guys,” Erik replied to the commentary with a playful touch of sarcasm, struggling a bit to escape from the neck hold and the incoming noogie. 

“Yeah, it was a pretty good trick.”

The voice was almost mean, but it was hidden under the pretense of calm conservatism. During his short time here on the team, Erik had learned to react various ways to that voice—usually with a touch of tension. David approached with the rest that was on his team, his face schooled into one of polite indifference while he kept his tone as cordial as possible. Yet his eyes were glazed over with a fine layer of displeasure—perhaps from losing the game or falling for Erik’s feint. Or maybe both. Regardless, he didn’t care much for losing or even made to look like he was bested. He was the captain after all. And Erik…well Erik was just some freshman upstart that managed to worm his way into a Division One team for an Ivy League school. A specialty pick by the coach.

Suffice it to say, some people had mixed reactions to this turn of events, inciting illicit rumors.

His favorite was that he was the coach’s boy-toy on the weekends.

Personally, Erik didn’t give a fuck. He just wanted to play the game that he loved so he didn’t flinch at David’s implicative tune, merely shot him a half grin in return. He didn’t bother keeping the heat from his tone though. “It wasn’t a trick. Just pure skill. I wouldn’t mind showing it to you again, Captain.”

“ _ Why you li—” _

“Matthews, Winters…both of you played a great game. I'll admit I wasn’t expecting that shot from you Winters. That was a great move.”

Erik allowed himself to soak in the praise as David visibly bristled like a disgruntled porcupine, appearing as if he wanted to say something to the man dressed uniformly in the Columbia Blue and White colors. Coach Mendez was a man of average height with larger than life voice; his face was reminiscent of a retired honey bear who was content to ride out its final days doing what it enjoyed; and his hands (maybe his knees too) were worn from playing this intense game his whole life. Typical of any coach of any sport, his knowledge of the game was unmatched, and he knew the weaknesses and strengths of his team; what personalities clashed; and the goals of every individual that composed it. The man was strict and was a big stickler for punctuality and maintaining grades. As was the Columbia way (or any Ivy League school really) academics  _ and _ athletics were to all be held to a superior standing.

It was why, despite being on the receiving end of praise from the coach, the freshman wanted to slink away under the knowing scrutiny of that heavy stare. Instead, he only managed a feeble, half-hearted, “Thanks Coach.”

The man nodded at him for now, their private business to be conducted out of the eyesight of team. Rumors were sure to be abound. Nevertheless, the man was satisfied with today’s practice. “I know the semester just started a month ago, but the Ivy League Conference begins in November. Our first official game of the season will be against the Red Foxes of Marist College. Traditionally…,” here the man paused, face scrunching as if he was recalling something sour from memory, “the Columbia Lions haven’t appeared in the NCAA Tournament since what…err 1962?”

“1968,” a light voice corrected from his side respectfully.

Petite and almost unobtrusive amongst the team of towering giants was a young woman with a weighted stare, a comely face and an eye for management. Which was well and all considering Maria was the team manager and the Coach’s daughter. The attentive brown eyes—must have been a family trait—were a dead giveaway.

“Thank you.” Ever the doting father, Coach Mendez smiled at her, reserving his serious expression for this ramble before him. “The point is, it's time for that to change. Columbia needs to make its presence known again. And not just known but remembered and awe-inspiring. We are Lions, the king of Beasts. Have our team historically been playing like King of Beasts? Hell no! All you hear about is Harvard this and Yale that—bah! I’m tired of it!”

“Well they do have good basketball team,” Gayle offhandedly said without much consideration for his words.

The coach whirled on him so fast the brunette visibly shrunk back, realizing his error. “Well why don’t you go to their school, eh Parrish?”

The point guard shook his head furiously.

Appeased, Mendez resumed his monologue. “We have a really good team this semester and I'm willing to put in the effort if I can receive that in turn from you all. You can guess what that means: Practice! Practice! And more practice. It’s going to be rough, but I believe in you all. I believe in your potential as a team and your individual talents. Now I need you all to believe too. Are you with me?”

A resounding mix of “Yes” and “Hell yeah’s” shook the gymnasium and Erik’s voice joined the chorus, encouraged by his team and the budding camaraderie between them all. Some were new like himself (he was the only freshman however) while some were veterans like David so there was some disparity between them that had to be bridged. But he was optimistic that relationships could be forged with some quality time with each other.

Of course, without fitting a ginger headed douche into the equation.

A furious smile lined that old bear mug of a face as he clapped in approval. The pleasure that suffused his voice was heartwarming. “Now that we’re on the same page, why don’t you guys get some early rest for today? We’ll pick up tomorrow at 5 AM. Maria will be waiting in the weight room to supervise your individual workout routines starting at 4.”

Perhaps everyone that was present (save for the one female and her father) was a hormonally-charged young adult, took the last part of that sentence the wrong way. The veterans knew well enough to keep their faces blank, but the newer members shared looks that didn’t escape Coach Mendez's attention.

“Any of you  _ not _ focusing strictly on their workouts will have their testicles chopped off post haste. Am I understood? Good. Now get going.”

Manhood effectively threatened; the Columbia Lion’s team was quick to scatter back to the locker-room in fear. Unfortunately, Erik wasn’t fast enough; a weathered but still strong hand clasped his shoulder and the freshmen’s eyes hesitantly found the unyielding ones of his coach. Shit. He  _ really was _ in trouble.

“My office now, Winters. I would like to speak with you.”

_ Fuck me. _

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

It was like being under the shared scrutiny of both parents; knowing you did something wrong and nothing you would say would get you out of trouble. Like painting the cat blue or flushing your math homework down the toilet and blaming your sister—basically anything that resulted in a good round of corporal punishment on your ass from a good old-fashioned belt. Except now, Erik was much too old to be spanked and neither of his parents were here in this room but the man on the other side of the desk stared at him in such a way it felt like both of those things were coming his way. You never were too old for a verbal ass-whipping unfortunately.

Coach Mendez was decidedly  _ pissed _ and a single iota away from breaking him into fun-sized pieces.

The incriminating evidence was a poorly typed paper with a big fat  _ F _ circled on the top and a constructive discourse littering the margins of the paper.

The cold sweat that poured down his back was different from the moisture from practice and less rewarding.

_ Academics  _ ** _and_ ** _ athletics Erik. _

Where were your academics at?

He wanted to run; run from this room littered with its golden trophies and standards; its pictures of a lovely family and an accomplished man shaking hands with equally accomplished people; to run from all things that reminded him he was just an inferior boy from Albany who was not cut out for an Ivy league school. He was not worthy—all the fears and anxiety came crashing down all at once as he stared at his paper and its accusatory grade. He could recount second by second how he blanked out in the library trying to compose a paper about a book (even now the title escapes him) that he didn’t quite understand and was not nearly as interesting as the Knicks versus Falcons game streaming on his phone. The effort was non-existent—well at least in their eyes. What he presented to his professor was garbage but to him, it was an honest effort.

“Mr. Winters, remember that conversation we had when I came to speak to you about your admission into Columbia University?”

Yes, how could he not?

_ “My SAT and ACT scores aren’t good enough for Columbia sir. I’m n-not really—” _

_ “Don’t worry about those. I want you playing on my team and I will make sure you get into that school.” _

_ “Really? T-That’s…I mean that’s fucking awesome—err really awesome sir! Thank—” _

_ “No need to thank me. I just want you to promise that when you get there, your academics will be Columbia level right? Think of it as a new start, Mr. Winters. A chance to show just how prodigious you are. Both on the field and in the classroom.” _

_ “…Yes, I’ll do my best.” _

Erik closed his eyes, reflecting on that conversation that took place in his senior year at Lancaster High School. All his young brain could think of was playing for an Ivy League school—playing on a Division One team. How proud his lower middle-class family would be. How proud to have him as a son…

_ Yes, he remembered. _

“Yeah, I remember coach.”

The man grunted, wearing his displeasure on his face as he straightened up, pointing to the paper, determined to drag Erik across this metaphorical bed of nails. “Then what’s this thing in front of me?”

The words were heavy and painful in his throat, clinging to fleshy pink walls. “My Masterpieces of Western Literature and Philosophy paper.”

“And it looks like you failed it. Horribly. Isn’t it the first big paper of the semester?”

“Y-Yes…”

“A sizeable chunk of your grade would you say?”

Erik couldn’t stand to look the man in the eye. Couldn’t stand the disappointment and frustration that he knew would be bared in all its intensity. When he spoke, it was softer than a whisper, softer than he knew his voice could get. “Yes sir…”

Mendez sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, a man burdened with the knowledge that his investment was showing signs of being a dud. And no one likes finding out they made a bad investment.The wrinkles crinkled on his forehead as they peeked through the web of his fingers. Erik wondered with no small amount of guilt how many were put there by himself.

“I’m good friends with Doctor Hardin so he was more than happy to provide me with a copy of your submission because I was curious to see how you were doing. You know, holding the end of our promise?”

The freshmen winced at the implicative intones, wondering when the gaping hole of shame would open underneath him and swallow him whole. A steadily increasing chant of  _ failurefailurefailure _ would play gleefully as he descended…man his mind was taking such a macabre turn. Yet it was preferable then sitting through this grilling. 

“I didn’t quite expect this…whatever  _ this _ is. It’s utterly unacceptable, Mr. Winters. Not even scratching the surface of meeting Columbia University criterion. You told me you would do your best—”

“I am doing my best!” Erik protested hotly, feelings of inferiority giving in to angry despair.

“Well your best is a load of horseshit!”

_ Ouch. _

The words hurt worse than hot knives against skin, trying not to let it show on his face, to let the frustrated tears escape. Underneath all that bluster and confidence, Erik's ego was frailer than one would suspect. And perhaps taking pity on him, or just realizing that some words were not appropriate in a one-to-one session, Mendez sighed again and smoothed the creases of his face with his hands. He somehow looked older here, worn from adult problems and life.

“Listen, Mr. Winters—I like you. If I didn’t like you and believed you had such untapped potential, I would have not bothered seeking you out after your game. But you really need to pull your weight here or…you may not be able to stay.”

_ FailureFailureFailure _

The hole underneath him leered hungrily at him, waiting for him to take the plunge.

Erik felt a strange disconnect with his body, not even hearing his own voice when he spoke, “What should I do? Even if I study, I—”

“—need help,” the coach finished calmly. “I suggest you seek out a tutor in the Berick Center for Student Advising. They are responsible for preventing a lot of flunking out--especially from first year students. You’re not the only one who experiences this.”

“I’m not dumb.” For some reason, tutoring translated to mentally challenged in Erik’s brain and something prickled at that, knowing that even he could be competent if worse came to worse.

Point proven nevertheless Coach Mendez could do nary more than raise an eyebrow, trying his best not to frown at his shooting guard. “Needing assistance or guidance doesn’t mean your dumb, Mr. Winters. Everyone at some point in their lives needs extra help. Especially from those who have expertise in the area. Besides, I’m not making this optional. Tomorrow, after classes, you’re going to get help. And I will call the advising dean to see if you did go.”

“But I was going to get some food with some friends—”

Another eyebrow joined the other in its stand against further objections.

Knowing that it was pointless to argue the point further, gritting his teeth, the freshman growled out, “Fine.”

“Good lad. I expect improvement for your next assignment. If your results are good, I won’t need to check up on your other classes!” It was said as a joke (sort of) but Erik didn’t crack a smile, his mood soured upon being required to spend his already limited free time on doing work outside of class—which didn’t already include homework and study hall. And what was he supposed to tell his friends?  _ I’m a bit of a failure so I need to get tutoring _ , would not be an impressive conversation. All this internal discomfort and anxiety almost caused him to miss his coach telling him to go. “Didn’t you hear me? You can leave now—it’s already 7:30. There should still be enough time to get dinner.”

“Right.”

“Remember, training early tomorrow! Don’t stay up all night doing what boys your age normally do.”

Effectively grossed out, Erik just gave a lazy “Mhmm” and scrambled out of there before the sweat on his back could get any slicker, having escaped that proverbial hole reserved for failures for now. How was he to make such a drastic change? The next assignment for that class wouldn’t be due for two weeks. However, that didn’t include his less than stellar performance in his other classes as well. University Writing was a bust; he couldn’t compose anything legible if someone waved a check for a million dollars under his nose—but this was already demonstrated by his piss-poor essay. Frontiers of Science was a bit of an improvement if you considered that he often cheated on the assignments and partnered with Mason for the labs (who shared the class but was decidedly more intelligent than himself). Introduction to Contemporary Civilization wasn’t too terrible; Erik was competent when it came to history because his dad was a history buff and a lot of their precious father-son time was talking about archaic things. A lot of other students in his dorm were taking five classes (which seemed to be the standard—hell even Mason was) but juggling basketball with his studies was already a nightmare. If he had to stay on this basic bitch level and take four classes, then fine. He didn’t mind the cop out.

The only problem was  _ passing _ them. Highschool classes were a joke compared to this. It felt like someone put him in a level 99 dungeon while he was still level one rocking starter gear.

He didn’t know what to do.

As his insecurities and fears worked themselves into a tizzy, Erik could do nothing but try to concentrate on the coolness exuding from door leading back into the dormitory, leaning his head against its surface. The campus was a lot quieter at this time; hardly anyone around underneath the layer of sweet darkness save for a few streetlamps and the occasional campus security. He needed to take a shower—he was a sweaty mess. Inhaling deeply, Erik composed himself and schooled his expression back into the public one; the one that everyone liked, confident and chill Erik Winters.

Not failure Erik Winters.

Not scared, frail, talentless Erik Winters who didn’t quite get into this school with his own merit and was going to be out of the door in five seconds—

_ FailureFailureFailure _ …

Erik stepped inside and left his worries on the doorstep, waving and smiling at Kimberly who was already taking classes to get herself ready for med school or Donavon who was already in two clubs and settled for nothing less than a ‘ _ A’ _ in his five classes. Young adults who belonged in this school with their well-off families.  _ Stop,  _ he had to remind himself, pushing negative thoughts to the side when he entered his shared room with his friend. 

Said friend was doing something innocent by way of doing some homework.

When he looked up from what he was doing, a finger pushed up glasses that had slid down the bridge of an average nose. His eyes were warm, but tired. A faint smudge of something brown lingered on the corner of his mouth—chocolate maybe from those Hershey’s he coveted.

“How was practice?”

Without saying a word, Erik fell onto the four-poster bed and let the pillow suffocate his face.

“That bad, huh?”

“You’ve no idea,” groaned the weary freshmen, voice muffled by the soft marshmallow-y goodness.

“Well I mean you stink so I suppose that’s a good thing, right?”

An unamused green eyed glare came slipped through a crevice between face and pillow.

Taking the hint, Mason recanted his earlier comment with a less offensive one. “Well your muscles hurt so I guess that’s a good thing, right? Look, I don’t know what you jock types need to do to fill accomplished so…”

“It’s not the exercise or the actual practice, Mason,” grumbled Erik, beginning to feel self-conscious as they broached this sensitive lane.

“Then what? What happened?”

“Well…”

“Well…?”

“Shit man, don’t judge me okay?”

The patience Mason must of have had for this criminally childish 18-year-old was legendary. Despite this, he did allow a decorum of sarcasm to ooze into his voice. “I mean, how can I judge you if I don’t know what it is?”

Erik huffed and finally separated his face from the pillow, uncomfortable, strangely defiant but a rare vulnerability shimmered underneath the forest-green surface of his eyes. “Coach knows I’m not doing good in my classes and kind of implied if I don’t get my shit together, I might not be able to stay in Columbia anymore.”

_ Silence. _

Then—

“To be honest, I’m a little surprised to hear you’re not doing well in your classes either.”

Erik sighed, closing his eyes, wishing the reality of his situation was different. That he wasn’t on his way to becoming a college dropout. “We only have one class together and I'm only decent in that one because you basically carry my dumbass.”

“Well that’s true,” acquiesced the other freshmen, wearing a pensive expression. Then adding softly, “So what’s the game plan, bro?”

“Game plan…,” Erik echoed blankly, feeling oddly detached. “Nothing, I guess. Coach wants me to get tutoring tomorrow or whatever. Doubt it will work—it will be just a waste of time.”

“And your confident in this?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Here Mason swiveled back to look at his work—bits of neat code coming together to make the barebones of an application—letting a silence drift between them for approximately five minutes. Erik was about to drift off (anything to put an end to the day) but his friend’s light voice caused him to perk up, squinting at his turned back: “What?”

“I could tutor you. I don’t mind.”

The suggestion was surprising to say the least and he hid this behind a jest, “I don’t have any chocolate to trade you after you raided my stash.”

“I’m serious.” And he was serious; his voice reflected it and he was looking at Erik again, half a frown on his face, looking like he wanted to say something else, but it was stuck. “I don’t want you to leave, Erik.”

Maybe he was playing devil's advocate here, but he couldn’t quite believe Mason would help him. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t intelligent—guy made it a daily routine to recite complex equations and formulas to pass time in game lobbies (“What is Callan-Symanzik’s equation again?”). Guy was a mega nerd, but it was hidden under laziness and an anime obsession. All of this was at the crippling expense of being an introvert to the very root of the word and being so socially awkward that it would be comical if it wasn’t so alarming. Guy couldn’t hold a conversation if he wasn’t comfortable with you. To make matters worse he was painfully shy to the point the others in the dorm thought Erik was the only freshmen who lucked out and got his own room. Turns out Mason just never left the room—at least when it wasn’t time for class or to take care of daily necessities. But it was so discreet that Erik honestly felt he was always secluded in these four walls.

He never encountered anyone like this before and their personalities were so at odds with each other’s that he wondered how they became friends in the first place.

He knew it had something to do with that Isekai anime poster on his side of the wall and commenting how those types of anime were all the same. Of course such a comment went challenged and sparked a debate that lasted for several hours while Erik was moving all his stuff into the room (because it had been move in day) and he couldn’t keep up because you never could with Mason but hey… Apparently, he was deemed tolerable enough to speak to, thus creating a friendship.

It wasn’t a stretch to say Erik was probably the introvert’s only friend.

And it was only reasonable that he didn’t take the offering to help as seriously as he should, seeing as he didn’t have any foundation for the other being interested in his studies before. So maybe his reply could have been perceived as a little insensitive:

“You wouldn’t miss me anyway. I mean you would finally have space to setup that uh…super PC you wanted right?”

Nah he wasn’t coming off as insensitive. He totally wasn’t being inconsiderate to someone that didn’t normally step out their shell like this.

Apparently he was because that unsure face twisted to one of insecurity then into something reprehensible—more so directed at himself if Erik was keen enough to look. To him, it looked like he was seconds away from something being thrown at his head. “Whatever. Goodluck with your problem.” Mason turned back around, a tightness about his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Erik struggled to compose a reply, but Mason beat him to it, his frigid tone in stark contrast to the warmness that pervaded it seconds ago:

“Oh, and Erik? You really do stink, and its mildly offensive.”

For some reason, he knew he wasn’t talking exclusively about his body odor. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

It was 4:00 PM on a Friday and he’s been staring at the student receptionist of the student advising center for a whole hour now.

She probably thought he was some fucking weirdo by now or was just straight up ignoring his presence. Erik didn’t understand why he was struggling so much to go up and tell her,  _ hey I’m interested in signing up for tutoring.  _ Hell, it sounded pathetic even in his own head, asking for help. The girl would probably pity him then look expectant upon discovering he was a freshman. Great. Now he was a loser  _ and _ pathetic. But he couldn’t just stand there all day; Coach made sure to specifically pat his shoulder five times in succession (yes, he counted), a message—or rather reminder to remember what they talked about in the privacy of his office. David had given him a withering look at the contact and Erik almost wanted to laugh at his face for assuming it was probably an indication of praise or favoritism. Granted that shot from halfway down the court was nice but it was anything but that.

You could have all the ambiguous pats on the shoulder in the world David—please take them because Erik didn’t want them. If he wasn't on the receiving end of Coach's attention, then he wouldn’t have to be here standing foolishly waiting for some type of prompt as opposed to hanging out with his friends, eating burgers at some greasy burger place. Blowing them off hadn’t been pleasant either and the only way they were willing to forgive him if he was going to get laid and to share all the details. If getting laid was an alternative way to say studying, then sure, he was going to get laid till either his face or balls were blue. Either or—

It still didn’t solve his current problem of going to talk to the girl and accomplishing what he came to do.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should just go back—

The receptionist looked up at him from her computer screen.

Erik froze.

She blew a sizeable bubble with pink gum and the basketball player stared entranced until she popped it purposely.

And for some reason, that was all it took to provoke him into action.

“Excuse me, my name is Erik Winters. I’m looking for a tutor—I’m kind of in a bind.”

Gum girl blinked up at him with reserved eyes, perhaps used to dealing with his kind before— the stereotypical, dumb, freshmen jock type. She was professional enough not to indicate this in her voice when she replied, “I will be happy to assist you with that. What class do you need tutoring in?”

“Everything,” he said before he can stop himself, color creeping up the tan skin of his neck lightly. Quickly before she could think he was a complete imbecile, he pulled out a less than clean copy of his schedule and passed it along to her with his student ID. “Any of these please. Or someone who’s good at all of these subjects.”

“Sadly, most of our tutors who specialize in those classes are taken due to reservations. But…,” perhaps she took pity on the hopelessness on his face and the desperation behind his eyes because she made a couple more clicks. Another pop of gum, this one a tinge more contemplative, broke the studious stillness of the air. “We have one available but he’s kind of…”

“I’ll take anyone! I just—” Erik reigned back the desperation, sucking in a calming breath. “…really appreciate the help.”

Gum girl, with her chocolate eyes and freckled cheeks, gave him a lukewarm smile and pointed at a door before giving him back his things. “Your tutor will be Leiss Callaghan. He’s…well,” she struggled to find words to adequately describe this person but give up with a watery smile, “just make sure you have all your coarse material available. Good luck with your studies!”

A sense of foreboding was wrapping its icy claws around his heart as he bid her farewell and made his way towards the door, happy he was able to get someone without making an appointment. Putting aside Gum girl’s indeterminate attitude about his tutor, Erik opened the door she directed him towards with an open mind, hoping this Leiss person would be able to assist him or put him in the right direction.

Yet things were never that simple and the universe had a way of fucking with him in the most ironic ways.

After all, why would they send the guy with the fucked-up attitude to be the one to save him from imminent failure.

Shame, he didn’t quite look like the asshole he bumped into yesterday: short golden hair was properly styled this time with nary a hair out of place; pale skin no longer flushed from a brush with cool air; and some name brand pair of glasses shielded focused hazels as they trekked along the pages of a book he was reading. A white, polo brand name shirt contrasted painfully with the black, short-sleeved shirt Erik had found one day looking for Cheetos in Walmart—evidence that they were in fact from different worlds. He was the very picture of a scion of a wealthy family going to an Ivy League school, perfect, sophisticated, and good-looking as expected. The only thing Erik could say that he one-upped him on (because this was suddenly a contest for some reason) was that in contrast to his athletic body that was sculpted from running up and down a court the majority of his life, was that this guy was merely toned; not really muscular or ripped. Like cardio and yoga was his best friend as opposed to a weight room.

Sad that such an insignificant detail made him feel more than a little better. 

But it wasn’t enough to stop him from turning around, placing a hand on the doorknob to walk out the door and just give up—

“It’s rather rude to enter a room with the intention of speaking with someone and not introducing yourself.”

Erik took a deep breath, releasing the doorknob that had silently squealed when his hand tightened around the cool metal. 

_ Don’t punch him. Erik don’t punch him. It’s not worth it— _

“Sorry, I wasn’t sure if this was the right room.”

“You're full of excuses, aren’t you? No, don’t answer that—I was merely thinking aloud. Come sit and let us try this again, properly this time.”

Even though his voice was like honey on silk, smooth with its effortless sophistication, the pretty mouth it came from belonged to an ugly person, Erik felt. There was no way you could be so insulting to someone you don’t even know. But he owed it to his coach to put in the effort, even if he had to put up with pretentious assholes like this. He was even proud of himself when he managed to sit across from the other with a smile sweet enough to give anyone diabetes, wondering if it would be bad if he stepped on the guy’s feet accidentally. 

“My name is Erik Winters and I’m…in need of your assistance.”

The blond looked like he wanted to roll his eyes at the attempt at the greeting, but he nodded, more or less satisfied for now. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winters. My name is Leiss Callaghan and I’m a junior at our school. I hope I can provide you as much as possible with the limited amount of time we have.”

“I’m sorry! You know…for before. I hope we can start on a new leaf.”

“The phrase is: ‘Turn over a new leaf’. If your going to use an idiom, at least know how to use it.” Unimpressed, which seemed to be the general trend they were heading towards, Leiss removed his glasses and collapsed it into the breast pocket of his shirt. A sense malcontent seemed to float around him, according to Erik’s imagination anyway. “It would serve us well if you took out your course materials so I have an idea on what help to provide.” 

It would seem his third attempt went ignored. Figures.

While moving to get his bag, Erik allowed himself one more furtive appraisal of the guy, without the glasses and while he was mildly preoccupied with organizing some writing utensils on the table.

For one thing, the air about him was haughty. His words were almost condescending yet reserved. Yet his eyes…the truth behind the false veneer that glazed them…was fragile, like glass. And Erik began to wonder what was keeping those delicate pieces together, keeping this hurt soul intact. It wasn’t until those pink lips mouthed something in his direction—so wrapped up in his observation—that he realized he had been staring in opened mouth unawareness.

“Enjoying the view?”

Not expecting to be caught in spite of the blatant staring, Erik flushed in embarrassment for the second time that day, hastily placing a couple of books on the table between them. Partially mortified, he tried to find his voice, rubbing the back of his head, “Sorry! I was…never mind.”  _ Reboot Erik, reboot.  _ “The class I need help with the most is my Masterpieces of Western Literature and Philosophy class. I’m having some trouble writing about the source material.”

“The source material being the  _ lliad,  _ yes?” Leiss inquired, flipping through the book with familiar dexterity, like it was an old friend.

“Right.”

A naked pause then, “Did you read this? Any of it?”

“Not too much…” An admission of guilt.

Unfortunately, Leiss took that as a big fat “No” and closed the book with a resounding snap. His expression was not kind. “How do you expect to be successful in this class if you can’t even do the designated reading? Unbelievable. I’m not here to do your assigned work for you. I’m here to aid you in reaching your own conclusions and developing an understanding as to why you made them in the first place. If you can’t even put in the minimal amount of effort, I’m afraid your wasting your time and my own. Good day, Mr. Winters.”

It was like watching his chance for a college education (an Ivy League one) pack up and get ready to leave forever. Erik acted without thinking and lurched out, wrapping his fingers around a slighter wrist. The instantaneous rigidity and tension were palpable under his grip and for a moment Erik almost doubted himself, but the desperation he was feeling was overwhelming any rational thought.

“Unhand me, Mr. Winters.”

The voice was colder than a Russian Winter and the underlying threat was near nuclear.

Erik stood his ground, his face stricken and desperate all at once as he pleaded, “Please! I need your help! If I don’t start doing better in my classes, I won’t be able to stay here anymore. And coming here…going to this…this type of school is everything to me. I know I don’t belong here—I’m not a super genius or anything. But someone still gave me the opportunity anyway. I…”

“That is not my problem. Now let me go this instant—”

“Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly that you didn’t know you wanted till it was about to be gone?”

The trembling from that wiry frame grew less in intensity as something in his words resonated with him. Maybe it wasn’t the words themselves but the emotion behind them that spoke to the blond but the next moment he was sighing and turning to look directly in Erik’s eyes. 

The glass behind them seemed so fragile…

“Please, unhand me.”

Erik did immediately, suddenly overcome with guilt from causing such discomfort, watching as nimble fingers massaged the area in an almost detached fashion. There was an almost faraway look in his eye.

“Sorry.”

“…I will help you, but there are stipulations you must adhere to or I will recant my offer.”

Ecstatic, Erik barely could prevent it from bleeding into his voice. “Anything.”

Leiss was quiet for a hot second before reclaiming his seat, eyeing the other with a wariness an injured animal regarded a human. “Number one: refrain from touching me at all times. Number two: you will adequately prepare yourself before our meetings by reading any of the required materials. I will quiz you appropriately to make sure you do so. Number three: you will do your due diligence and make a proper reservation with me. I’m available on weekdays after four and should anything come up you will know. Number four: You will always show me your best otherwise those impassioned words of yours was just silly bravado. I guarantee that I’m not pleasant to those who waste my time. Any of this confusing in anyway?”

_ I’m not a complete idiot, you know,  _ Erik wanted to say but he refrained; he didn’t want to chase the guy off. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Good. We’ll spend the remaining time having you read up to Book 10 in your required reading. If you can’t, you will continue on your own time.”

“Uh, what are you going to do while I read?”

Hazel hues blinked slowly, regarding him in that cool way of his. “Book 1: The Rage of Achilles starts on page 77. I suggest you get to it, Mr. Winters.”

Erik scrambled for the discarded book and hastily flipped to the page. Before long, forest green orbs peeked over the rim of the book so he could observe the young man who was staring off into the distance, still absentmindedly rubbing the same spot where he was grabbed. 

Against the backdrop of bookshelves and portraits of famous alumni of the school, his figure cut a lonely silhouette while his mind played host to its own private hell as Erik remained none the wiser.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this starter. Let me know if you wanna see more!


End file.
